The world has had its share of kings,
So small they had to quit;
But one stands out among them all
So large, he simply could not fit. [1]

“What is a king?”
That question lies at the heart of Christ the King Sunday. Children ask it. Adults ask it. Pilate asked it.
When we hear the word king, the images come easily: a crown, a throne, a fortress, an army, servants, power, glory. When we think about their behavior, history gives us plenty to choose from: good kings and bad kings, just kings and corrupt kings, kind rulers and cruel tyrants. Maybe you think of King Arthur, the noble king of legend, or King David, who went from shepherd boy to powerful ruler. Or you might think of their opposites: King John from Shakespeare’s history plays, or Saul, the troubled king who came before David. Whatever kind of king they were, every one of them eventually reached the same end: they died. Their reigns ended. Their power quit. Even the greatest were too small to last. So again, we ask: What is a king?

On this last Sunday of our liturgical year, Christ the King Sunday, we are met with that very question. Next week we begin Advent and start a new cycle of readings, but for now we stand at the doorway between one year and the next, listening as Pilate asks Jesus, “Are you the King of the Jews?” It is a fair question. Pilate is sworn to defend his own king, Caesar. He knows what kings are supposed to look like: political force, military control, royal display. And yet here stands Jesus, without an army, without a throne, without the trappings of earthly royalty.

Quite suddenly, our Gospel reading throws us directly into the crucifixion. “And they crucified him at a place called the Skull.” [2] Not exactly the triumphant coronation one might expect on Christ the King Sunday. It feels jarring. We sing hymns of glory, “Crown Him with Many Crowns,” but the Gospel crowns Him with many thorns. We celebrate His kingship, but the reading shows His execution. This is the paradox at the heart of our faith: Christ is crowned King through His death. We must sit with that and we must listen. In the conversation between Pilate and Jesus, Pilate struggles to understand. Jesus speaks of a kingdom not of this world, of truth, of a kingship larger than anything Pilate can imagine. You can almost picture Jesus glancing at the sunlight on the stone walls as He explains: “You think of kingship as crowns made of gold, kingdoms made of land, and power made of armies, but My kingdom is not contained by any of these.”
Pilate cannot grasp it. Jesus is too large for the categories Pilate knows.

He wants Jesus to fit into a human-sized definition of kingship so he can quickly pass judgment. Jesus won’t shrink Himself down and, beloved, many people today still struggle with that same thing. They expect a king who protects them from all harm. When illness comes, or relationships falter, or the world feels broken, they say: “If Jesus is King, why didn’t He stop this?” “If He rules, why isn’t everything fixed?” We imagine kings as problem-solvers with worldly power, seated on visible thrones. We want a king who fits neatly inside our expectations, someone who makes our lives comfortable. But Jesus tells Pilate, and He tells us: “You are trying to fit Me into a very small world. I am too large for the definitions you have shaped for Me.”

St. Augustine said it perfectly: “If you understand God, then He is not God.” Again, in his Confessions: “I was assured that God was infinite, though He is not diffused in finite spaces.”

Every earthly king, every ruler, every leader, we can measure their strength, their years, their achievements. Their lives have borders. Their reigns end but Jesus stands among them all, immeasurably greater. Yet, we face a challenge: How do we proclaim Him as King of Kings when His crown was made of thorns, and His throne was a cross? The answer lies in the scene that follows, where Jesus hangs between two criminals. One mocks Him: “You gave up your life for nothing. Look at you now.” The other sees something the world cannot see and says, “Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom.” Jesus answers him with a promise too large for human imagination.

In our human capacity, we often try to understand God with our minds alone. But God honored David not for his intellect, but because he had a heart after God’s own heart. The mind is limited. The heart reaches further and eventually, both mind and heart must bow to the Spirit. At the end of all things, when the world shrinks and life “quits”, Christ does not. He reigns beyond our imagination. His kingdom cannot be contained. His love cannot be conquered.

When Jesus came into the world, it was God’s earnest mission to open something larger than human definitions, larger than our reason, larger than the narrow spaces we try to confine Him in. Science today still cannot fully explain the human mind, its memories, its mysteries, its depth. If we live only by what our minds can grasp, our world becomes too small. Jesus came not because it was a good idea, but because He loves us. His love breaks open our small categories.

Our minds must yield to the heart, and our hearts must yield to the Spirit, and the Spirit leads us into a kingdom that is vast, eternal, and overflowing with glory. Jesus told us that even faith the size of a mustard seed is enough. Faith like the condemned man who used his last breath to say: “Remember me.” And Jesus says the same to us: “I do remember you. My kingdom is open.”

My father once told me when I faced a difficult problem: “You can’t go around it, you can’t go over it, you can’t go under it, you have to go through it.” Jesus came for that very reason, so that by going through death, He could open eternity for everyone.

On this Christ the King Sunday, we are reminded that the world has seen many kings, kings so small their reigns eventually quit. One stands above them all: so great, so vast, so immeasurable that according to the world’s small idea of a king, He simply could not fit.

[1] The Rev. Jon Roberts
[2] Luke 23:33-43